by Anne Rice
Was she blushing? She felt the warmth in her face. Maybe it was simply the humid air and the sun rising slowly outside, and the garden filling up with a bright light that made the trees come alive beyond the glass, and made the sky suddenly blue in the topmost panes of the windows.
But it was more likely shame that she felt. Shame that Aaron or Michael might know what she’d been thinking.
Lusting after the devil like a witch. She laughed softly.
And it seemed unfair suddenly, very unfair that he should be her sworn enemy before they’d even met.
“What are you waiting for?” she asked aloud. “Are you like the shy vampire of myth who must be invited in? I think not. This is your home. You’re here now. You’re listening to me and watching me.”
She sat back in the chair, her eyes running over the murals as they slowly came to life in the pale sunlight. For the first time she spied a tiny woman naked in the window of the dim plantation house in the painting. And another faded nude seated upon the dark green bank of the small lagoon. It made her smile. Rather like discovering a secret. She wondered if Michael had seen these two tawny beauties. Oh, the house was full of undiscovered things, and so was its sad and melancholy garden.
Beyond the windows, the cherry laurel suddenly swayed in the breeze. In fact, it began to dance as if a wind had caught its stiff dark limbs. She heard it stroke the banister of the porch. It scraped against the roof above, and then settled back to itself, as the wind moved on, it seemed, to the distant crepe myrtle.
Entrancing the way the high thin branches, full of pink blossoms, succumbed to the dance, and the entire tree thrashed against the gray wall of the neighboring house, and sent down a shower of dappled, fluttering leaves. Like so much light falling in tiny pieces.
Her eyes misted slightly; she was conscious of the relaxation of her limbs, of giving in to a vague dreaminess. Yes, look at the tree dance. Look at the cherry laurel again, and the shower of green coming down on the boards of the porch. Look at the thin limbs reaching all the way in to scrape the windowpanes.
With a dull shock, she focused her eyes, staring at the branches, staring at their concerted, deliberate movement as they stroked the glass.
“You,” she whispered.
Lasher in the trees, Lasher the way Deirdre would make him come outside the boarding school. And Rita Mae never knew what she’d actually described to Aaron Lightner.
She was rigid now in the chair. The tree was bending close, and then swaying back ever so gracefully, and this time the branches veritably blotted out the sun, and the leaves tumbled down the glass, broken and spinning. Yet the room was warm and airless.
She did not remember rising to her feet. But she was standing. Yes, he was there. He was making the trees move, for nothing else on earth could make them move like that. And the tiny hairs were standing up on the backs of her arms. And she felt a vague chill over her scalp, as if something were touching her.
It seemed the air around her changed. Not a breeze, no. More like a curtain brushing her. She turned around, and stared out through the empty window at Chestnut Street. Had there been something there, a great dense shadow for a moment, a thing contracting and then expanding, like a dark sea being with tentacles? No. Nothing but the oak across the street. And the sky growing ever more radiant.
“Why don’t you speak?” she said. “I’m here alone.”
How strange her voice sounded.
But there were other sounds intruding now. She heard voices outside. A truck had stopped; and she could hear the scrape of the gate as the workmen pushed it back on the flagstones. Even as she waited, her head bowed, there came the turning of the knob.
“Hey, there, Dr. Mayfair … ”
“Morning, Dart. Morning, Rob. Morning, Billy.”
Heavy feet mounted the stairs. With a soft deep vibration, the little elevator was being brought down, and soon its brass door opened with the familiar dull clang.
Yes, their house now.
She turned sluggishly, almost stubbornly, and gathered together the entire trove of treasures. She took them into the china pantry and put them in the large drawer, where the old tablecloths had once been, moldering, before they were discarded. The old key was still in the lock. She turned it and put the key in her pocket.
Then she went back out, steps slow, uneasy, relinquishing the house to the others.
At the gate, she turned and looked back. No breeze at all in the garden. Just to make certain of what she’d seen, she turned and followed the path, around and past her mother’s old porch, and back to the servants’ gallery that ran along the dining room.
Yes, littered with curling green leaves. Something brushed her again, and she turned around, her arm up as if to defend herself from a dangling spiderweb.
A stillness seemed to drop down around her. No sounds had followed her here. The foliage grew high and dense over the balustrade.
“What keeps you from speaking to me?” she whispered. “Are you really afraid?”
Nothing moved. The heat seemed to rise from the flagstones beneath her. Tiny gnats congregated in the shadows. The big drowsy white ginger lilies leaned over close to her face, and a dull crackling sound slowly drew her eye to the depths of the garden patch, to a dark tangle from which a vagrant purple iris sprang, savage and shivering, a hideous mouth of a flower, its stem snapping back now as though a cat darting through the brush had bent it down carelessly.
She watched it sway and then right itself and grow still, its ragged petals trembling. Lurid, it looked. She had the urge to put her finger into it, as if it were an organ. But what was happening to it? She stared, the heat heavy on her eyelids, the gnats rising so that she lifted her right hand to drive them away. Was the flower actually growing?
No. Something had injured it, and it was breaking from its stem, that was all, and how monstrous it looked, how enormous; but it was all in her perspective. The heat, the stillness, the sudden coming of the men like intruders into her domain right at the moment of her greatest peace. She could be sure of nothing.
She took her handkerchief out of her pocket and blotted her cheeks, and then walked down the path towards the gate. She felt confused, unsure-guilty that she’d come alone, and uncertain that anything unusual had happened.
All her many plans for the day came back to her. So much to do, so many real things to do. And Michael would be getting up just about now. If she hurried, they might have breakfast together.
Thirty-five
MONDAY MORNING MICHAEL and Rowan went downtown together to obtain their Louisiana driver’s licenses. You couldn’t buy a car here until you had the state driver’s license.
And when they turned in their California licenses, which they had to do in order to receive the Louisiana license, it was sort of ceremonial and final and oddly exciting. Like giving up a passport or citizenry, perhaps. Michael found himself glancing at Rowan, and he saw her secretive and delighted smile.
They had a light dinner Monday night at the Desire Oyster Bar. A searing hot gumbo, full of shrimp and andouille sausage; and ice-cold beer. The doors of the place were open along Bourbon Street, the overhead fans stirring the cool air around them, the sweet, lighthearted jazz pouring out of the Mahogany Hall bar across the street.
“That’s the New Orleans sound,” Michael said, “that jazz with a real song in it, a joie de vivre. Nothing ever dark in it. Nothing ever really mournful. Not even when they play for the funerals.”
“Let’s take a walk,” she said. “I want to see all these seedy joints for myself.”
They spent the evening in the Quarter, roaming away from the garish lights of Bourbon Street finally, and past the elegant shop windows of Royal and Chartres, and then back to the river lookout opposite Jackson Square.
The size of the Quarter obviously amazed Rowan, as well as the feeling of authenticity which had somehow survived the renovations and the various improvements. Michael found himself overwhelmed again by the inevitable me
mories-Sundays down here with his mother. He could not argue against the improvements of curbs and street lamps, and new cobblestones laid around Jackson Square. The place seemed if anything more vital now than it had been in its shabbier and more volatile past.
It felt so good after the long walk to sit on the bench at the riverfront, merely watching the dark glitter of the water, watching the dancing boats, strung with lights like big wedding cakes, as they swept past the distant indistinct shapes of the far bank.
A gaiety prevailed among the tourists who came and went from the lookout. Soft conversation and random bursts of laughter. Couples embraced in the shadows. A lone saxophonist played a ragged, soulful song for the quarters people tossed into the hat at his feet.
Finally, they walked back into the thick of the pedestrian traffic, making their way to the soiled old Café du Monde for the famous café au lait and sugared doughnuts. They sat for a while in the warm air, as the others came and went from the sticky little tables around them; then meandered out among the glitzy shops which now filled the old French Market, across from the sad and graceful buildings of Decatur Street with their iron-lace balconies and slender iron colonettes.
Because she asked him to, he drove her up through the Irish Channel, skirting the dark brooding ruin of the St. Thomas Project, and following the river with its deserted warehouses for as long as he could. Annunciation Street looked a little better in the night maybe, with cheerful lights in the windows of the little houses. They drove on, uptown, on a narrow tree-lined street, into the Victorian section where the rambling houses were full of gingerbread and fretwork, and he pointed out to her his old-time favorites, and those he would love to restore.
How extraordinary it felt to have money in his pockets in his old home town. To know he could buy those houses, just the way he’d dreamed of it in the long-ago hopelessness and desperation of childhood.
Rowan seemed eager, happy, curious about things around her. No regrets apparently. But then it was so soon …
She talked now and then in easy bursts, her deep grosgrain voice always charming him and distracting him slightly from the content of what she said. She agreed the people here were incredibly friendly. They took their time about everything they did; but they were so completely without meanness it was almost hard to figure out. The accents of the family members baffled her. Beatrice and Ryan spoke with a touch of New York in their voices. Louisa had a completely different accent, and young Pierce didn’t sound like his father; and all of them sounded just a little bit like Michael sooner or later on some words.
“Don’t tell them that, honey,” he cautioned her. “I’m from the other side of Magazine Street and they know it. Don’t think they don’t.”
“They think you’re wonderful.” she said dismissing his comment. “Pierce says you’re an old-fashioned man.”
He laughed. “Well, hell,” Michael said, “maybe I am.”
They stayed up late, drinking beer and talking. The old suite was as large as an apartment with its den and its kitchen, as well as the living room and the bedroom. He wasn’t getting drunk at all these days, and he knew she was aware of it, but she didn’t say anything, which was just as well. They talked about the house and all the little things they meant to do.
Did she miss the hospital? Yes, she did. But that wasn’t important right now. She had a plan, a great plan for the future, which she would disclose soon enough.
“But you can’t give up medicine. You don’t mean that?”
“Of course I don’t,” she said patiently, dropping her voice a little for emphasis. “On the contrary. I’ve been thinking about medicine in an entirely different light.”
“How do you mean?”
“It’s too soon to explain. I’m not sure myself. But the question of the legacy changes things, and the more I learn about the legacy the more things are going to change. I’m in a new internship with Mayfair and Mayfair. The subject is money.” She gestured to the papers on the table. “And it’s moving along pretty well.”
“You really want to do this?”
“Michael, everything we do in life, we do with certain expectations. I grew up with money. That meant I could go to medical school and proceed right through a long residency in neurosurgery. I didn’t have a husband or kids to worry about. I didn’t have anything to worry about. But now the sums of money have changed radically. With money like the Mayfair money, one could fund research projects, build whole laboratories. Conceivably one could set up a clinic, adjacent to a medical center, for work in one specialty of neurosurgery.” She shrugged. “You see what I mean.”
“Yeah, but if you become involved in that way, it will take you out of the Operating Room, won’t it? You’ll have to be an administrator.”
“Possibly,” she said, “The point is, the legacy presents a challenge. I have to use my imagination, as the cliché goes.”
He nodded. “I see what you’re saying,” he responded. “But are they going to give you trouble?”
“Ultimately, yes. But it’s not important. When I’m ready to make my moves, that won’t matter. And I’ll make the changes as smoothly and tactfully as I can.”
“What changes?”
“Again, it’s too early. I’m not ready yet to draw up a grand plan. But I’m thinking of a neurological center here in New Orleans, with the finest equipment obtainable and laboratories for independent research.”
“Good Lord, I never thought of anything like that.”
“Before now, I never had the remotest chance of inaugurating a research program and completely controlling it-you know, determining the goals, the standards, the budget.” She had a faraway look in her eye. “The important thing is to think in terms of the size of the legacy. And to think for myself.”
A vague uneasiness seized him. He didn’t know why. He felt a chill rise on the back of his neck as he heard her say:
“Wouldn’t that be the redemption, Michael? If the Mayfair legacy went into healing? Surely you see it. All the way from Suzanne and Jan van Abel, the surgeon, to a great and innovative medical center, devoted of course to the saving of lives.”
He sat there pondering and unable to answer.
She gave a little shrug and put her hands to her temples. “Oh, there’s so much to study,” she said, “so much to learn. But can’t you see the continuity?”
“Yeah, continuity,” he said under his breath.
Like the continuity he was so certain of when he woke in the hospital after he drowned-everything connected. They chose me because of who I was, and it’s all connected …
“It’s all possible,” she said, scanning him for reaction. A little flame danced in her cheeks, in her eyes.
“Very near to perfect,” he said.
“So why do you look like that? What’s the matter?”
“I don’t know.”
“Michael, stop thinking about those visions. Stop thinking about invisible people in the sky giving our lives meaning. There are no ghosts in the attic! Think for yourself.”
“I am, Rowan. I am. Don’t get angry. It’s a stunning idea. It’s perfect. I don’t know why it makes me uneasy. Have a little patience with me, honey. Like you said, our dreams have to be in proportion to our resources. And so it’s a little over my head.”
“All you have to do is love me and listen to me, and let me think out loud.”
“I’m with you, Rowan. Always. I think it’s great.”
“You’re having trouble imagining it,” she said. “I understand. I’ve only begun myself. But goddamn it, the money’s there, Michael. There is something absolutely obscene about the amount of that money. For two generations, these corporation lawyers have tended this fortune, allowing it to feed upon itself and multiply like a monster.”
“Yeah, I know,” he said.
“Long ago, they lost sight of the fact that it was the property of one person. It belongs to itself in some horrible way, it’s greater than any human being should have or contr
ol.”
“A lot of people would agree with you,” he said.
But he couldn’t shake that memory of lying in the hospital bed in San Francisco and believing that his whole life had meaning, that everything he’d ever done and been was about to be redeemed.
“Yes, it would redeem everything,” he said. “Wouldn’t it?”
So why did he see the grave in his mind, with its twelve slots, and the doorway above, and the name Mayfair inscribed in big letters, and the flowers withering in the suffocating heat?
He forced himself out of this, and went for the best distraction he knew. Just looking at her, just looking and thinking about touching her, and resisting the urge, though she was only inches from him, and willing, yes, almost surely, willing to be touched.
It was working. A little switch was suddenly thrown in the ruthless mechanism called his brain. He was thinking of how her naked legs looked in the lamplight, and how delicate and full her breasts looked beneath her short silk gown.
Breasts always struck him as miracles; when you touched them and suckled them, they seemed entirely too luscious to be more than momentary-like sherbet or whipped cream, you expected them to melt in your mouth. That they stayed there, day after day, just waiting for you, was part of the whole impossibility of the female sex for him. That was all the science he knew. He bent forward, pressed his lips against her neck, and gave a little determined growl.
“Now you’ve done it,” she whispered.
“Yeah, well, it’s about time,” he said in the same deep voice. “How would you like to be carried to bed?”
“I’d love it,” she purred. “You haven’t done that since the first time.”
“Christ! How could I have been so thoughtless!” he whispered. “What kind of an old-fashioned man am I?” He shoved his left arm under her hot silky thighs and cradled her shoulders with his right, kissing her as he picked her up, secretly exultant that he didn’t lose his balance and go sprawling. But he had her-light and clinging, and suddenly feverishly compliant. Making it to the bed was a cinch.
